Warren Murphy: Syndication Rites

The President was waiting for him at the door. No longer capable of being surprised by anything, Mark didn't even blink when he saw the second man who was in the room.

The President-elect sat on a hard wooden chair across the room. It was an old Truman kitchen chair that had to be brought up from a musty corner of the basement. There was very little good furniture left around the mansion.

An old-fashioned phone was at the future President's feet. It was fire-engine red.

"Hello, Mark," the current chief executive said. "I'm sure you two haven't met."

He waved a questioning finger between the President-elect and Mark.

Sitting on his chair, the man who would become President the following day at noon didn't seem interested in Mark in the least. He was studying the phone at his feet, the deep lines of his forehead creased down the middle.

"We were just having a little talk before you showed up," the current President said. "It's a matter that, well, that concerns you now."

He glanced at the President-elect. The other man's face was somber. When he turned back to Mark, the chief executive took a deep breath.

"Mark, let me tell you about a little something called CURE...."